


A Straying Man

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Cheating, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Holmes Brothers, Hurt No Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Not A Happy Ending, Not a Happy Story, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Protective Greg, Protective Mycroft, References to Drugs, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always knew that John would stray. It was inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Changing Man

Sherlock always knew that John would stray. It was inevitable. John ran. 

When John’ family life went down, he ran to school and completed med school a year early. When John’s relationship with his long term girlfriend whose name Sherlock ignored, but couldn’t delete, because it was about John, broke up, and he was searching for a purpose again, that wasn’t long overnight hours in the A&E patching up drunkards with broken bones and drug addicts who swore the needle had just gotten stuck in their foot and children with sick bellies only because they had a book report due in the morning, John strayed. He strayed to Afghanistan, only on someone else’s orders, not his own, and Sherlock pretended not to know that that was an oddity for John. Finding that orders were something he wanted, and could handle. 

_“Watson, hold the scalpel a bit higher, there you go.” ___  
_” WATSON! FALL IN!” ___  
_“Watson! Medkit now!” ___

___But then John was shot, because he’d learned that sometimes, when he was running away, he sometimes wanted to be running toward, and so he would, and that in the end, it could be very, very bad, or very, very, good._ _ _

___But that was John Watson’s life. And so when he got shot, he strayed to London._ _ _

___Strayed to Sherlock._ _ _

___So in reality, Sherlock always knew John would stray, because John strayed when things got tough._ _ _

___He just didn’t know when._ _ _

___John ran, from where what he needed was. John strayed, from what his comforts were and where they were, even if the were wasn't past tense._ _ _

___Because John had learned, that straying kept him safe. And when he finally found something, found a man hunched over a microscope who asked for a mobile, he’d thought that maybe, just maybe there was something that could be worth _staying ___for._ _ _

____John stayed through the pink lady, and the blind banker and Baskerville with the time in the lab, and then the time after, when Sherlock shouted and John shouted, and the innkeepers stared. John dealt with Irene, though Sherlock thought that might be the day, when John’s eyes flickered over Irene’s body, and then fixed on Sherlock as if _Sherlock ___had asked for this, and could ask for it to stop._ _ _ _

_____John stayed through Moriarty, though Sherlock thought that Moriarty might be the trigger. The spider that drew John in, pulled him in and wrapped him tight. Leave him struggling to get out of the web until one day John stopped struggling, stopped running. Just...stayed._ _ _ _ _

_____But in the end, it was Sherlock. It was always Sherlock. Sherlock who ruined and broke and exploded or imploded depending on which chemistry teacher you asked about the state of their lab. Sherlock whose staring eyes and deducing, buzzing brain had driven Victor away. The harsh words they’d exchanged had of course helped along Sherlock’s drug habit. And the needles sinking into his arm had stilled his deducing, buzzing brain, for only a moment before sending it into overdrive. But that was fine. Sherlock was fine._ _ _ _ _

_____Or so he thought._ _ _ _ _

_____Until he woke up to Mycroft at his hospital bed for the third time in as many months, and his brother had asked in a hoarse, broken voice, just _when ___Sherlock was going to stop trying to kill himself and start living._ _ _ _ _

______And so Sherlock had. Or had pretended. But the reality of it was is that while John was a straying man, Sherlock was a staying man. He was in no way static, always changing, always moving. Mercurial, from eye color to the footpaths he followed. But Sherlock stayed where what he needed was, or where he thought he could get it from. So he stayed, but when John decided to stay, something broke in both their chests. John, fear of commitment, lingering and whispering and ‘he doesn't want you. You're boring…you're normal, you're average….’ Cruel laughter and sleepless nights of ‘what if’ that that won't turn into ‘just try’._ _ _ _ _ _

______For Sherlock, fear of loss, thick and oily, sludge in his chest, weighing him down. Coating the wings he could have used to fly with, instead leaving him to just...jump._ _ _ _ _ _

______And for the first time in his life, it was Sherlock who strayed, because London couldn’t give him what he needed. Couldn’t keep John Watson safe._ _ _ _ _ _

______And for the first time in his life, John stayed. Because he’d lost what would have made him run. The anchor he’d be escaping had gone, and he was for the first time, straying from straying and staying. And if that isn’t confusing, then you’re a far more intelligent mind than John Watson._ _ _ _ _ _

______So where that leaves John and Sherlock, is that one left and one remained, though neither of them expected it and it left them both fundamentally broken, and adrift in a sea of insecurity._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock would come back, of course. To find John had stayed and was finally tied down to something. Someone, really. Mary. John and Mary. Mary and John. A unit, now, something that came together._ _ _ _ _ _

______And despite John’s anger, as soon as he lathered his face with shaving cream, Mary knew. Mary was smart. Mary knew that he would go back to Sherlock and that Sherlock would take John back._ _ _ _ _ _

______But she got her wedding. Because in her time away, Sherlock had learned. He’d learned that if you truly love something, you let it explore and move. And Mary had learned, long before John and Sherlock, that you take what you can get, and enjoy happiness while it lasts._ _ _ _ _ _

______Mary, in all this, was a winner. Even the bullet sent speeding into Sherlock’s chest didn’t change that. If anything, it cemented it, even as blood stained white cotton and Sherlock’s knees crumpled._ _ _ _ _ _

______She was the winner, and then she left, leaving Sherlock and John to pick up what was left, for Sherlock to try and wash the gunpowder from his hands when it hadn’t even left Mary’s._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock and John were together again. Clock rewound with a giggled, _“Didja miss me? Didja miss me?” _____ _ _ _ _

_______And for the second time in his life, John stayed. He reached out for Sherlock’s hand, and promised something that he had before, only this time meaning it completely, and utterly._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________“We will fix this.”  
“I’m here.”  
“You’re my friend.” _

_______And as it should have been in the first place and always, Sherlock reached out, took John’s hand and stayed._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______And when the voice on the telly ended once more, and Sherlock’s hands were clean, and John’s mustache was well and truly gone, they came together. Late at night, in between one breath and another, they came together, piece fitting to piece. And it was good. John Watson finally stayed, and Sherlock Holmes allowed his heart to stray, and both were able to find what they needed._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _ _ _

_______Until it wasn’t._ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. A Cheating Man

Sherlock knew the moment John stepped in. He wasn’t late. He was right on time, unrumpled. But it was in his face, in his eyes. Sherlock stood, and John held out a hand, trying to come up with words, anything, knowing that Sherlock knew and Sherlock saw, and Sherlock always saw. 

And Sherlock walked away. He walked down the hall, to what had been his bedroom, but was now _their ___bedroom, but wasn’t really anymore, wasn’t anyone’s bedroom and shut the door. John came down after him, knocking gently, pleading. Sherlock ignored him, and locked the door with a quiet _‘snick’ ___.

__John went still, a whispered, “Sherlock. Please,” the only sound audible beside their breathing, separated by a thin, warped bedroom door._ _

__“Go,” Sherlock murmured, stepping away, sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands resting gently on his knees. “Go away.”_ _

__John swallowed hard and sank to the ground. It had been nothing. It had been a kiss, that was well meant, and teasing, and before John could say, “wait,” it had begun, and then John didn’t want to stop. It was dangerous, his veins were filled with adrenaline the way Sherlock’s had once been filled with a seven percent solution, and his lap was full of a warm pliant body, chair creaking in the office. He’d come with Sherlock’s name on his lips and guilt curdling his stomach. He’d pushed her away and she’d shrugged, scowling at the other name that wasn’t hers._ _

___“Why didn’cha tell me you were queer?” ___  
_“Shoulda known you were fuckin’ ‘im. He’s probably the bottom, innit ‘e? Poncy bastard.” _____

____She smirked, lip curling at the look of fury on John’s face._ _ _ _

_____“Lemme know if you want another round, doc. I’ll be here.” ____ _ _ _

_____She’d gotten fired only hours after, having been caught stealing a prescription pad and writing them out for herself. John had gone home only hours after that, and was now in the hall, back pressed against the door, leg aching, hand trembling as he listened to the nothing coming from the bedroom. Not a sound. Not the creak of bedsprings or the soft shuffle of bare feet on floor or the whispering of a silk robe._ _ _ _ _

_____John finally moved from the floor when the pain in his leg got to be too much to bear. He raised himself shakily, tapping on the door once more. “Sherlock...I...please. Can we talk? It was nothing…”_ _ _ _ _

_____Sherlock stirred, drawn from his mind palace at the voice. He stood and went to the door, turning the lock, undoing the bolt. He looked down at John and nodded._ _ _ _ _

_____“I know.”_ _ _ _ _

_____He shut the door again, turning the lights off, changing in quick robotic moments before going and lying down. He heard as John stumbled away, going down to the sofa and lying there, pillow against the arm to cushion his head. He knew John wouldn’t leave the flat, not tonight. He might in the morning though. Go into work, still smelling of her, still coated in her, unless he managed to find a clean set of clothes somewhere in the flat and take them to the bathroom. He wouldn’t come into the room for them. Not while Sherlock was inside._ _ _ _ _

_____Sherlock turned and frowned into the pillow, sliding his arms against the cold sheets and folding them under the pillow, John’s pillow...he was on John’s side, waiting for the warmth of a small compact body to lay next to him, to give a quiet sigh and peck him on the temple as a way of saying goodnight. Other times, that kiss would mean good morning. When Sherlock was crawling into bed as John’s alarm was going off for work. He’d curl up as John sat up, and smile into the sheets as John leaned over for a kiss. Sometimes, John would take a bit longer, kiss a bit further down, and then John would be late to work, and Sherlock would sleep much better._ _ _ _ _

_____Sherlock huffed and sat up, throwing the pillow to the ground. After a moment, he got up, stripping the bed completely, and going to the wardrobe. He yanked the bottom drawer out with a screech of unoiled rollers and pulled out a new set of sheets, remaking the bed. He clambered back in, sheets cold, scented only of the plastic packaging they’d been in, and Sherlock sighed, sinking into his mind palace, unsure of when he left the state of reality he’d made for himself for one ruled by his subconscious, tonight dark and stormy._ _ _ _ _

_____**_ _ _ _ _

_____The morning dragged Sherlock and John from uneasy sleep, each having tossed and turned the night away. John looked up from the kitchen table, eyes rimmed red as he slumped over a mug of tea. “Sherlock…”_ _ _ _ _

_____Sherlock ignored him, already showered and dressed, going to the fridge and setting out test tubes, each with a small chunk of human heart in the bottom._ _ _ _ _

_____“We have to talk.”_ _ _ _ _

_____The tubes clinked against each other as Sherlock set them in the rack, examining each one and labeling it with a wax pencil produced from somewhere in the vegetable crisper._ _ _ _ _

_____“Sherlock,” John breathed. “Please, listen.”_ _ _ _ _

_____A test tube slipped, fragile glass splintering, but not shattering, the liquid inside filling the cracks as Sherlock turned it in his hands, setting it in the sink gently before turning to take a seat across from John. “What is there to speak about?” Sherlock asked, staring him down. “You cheated.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I didn’t...It wasn’t meant...I don’t know how-” John swallowed hard as Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow. “I took this morning off from the clinic. She’s...She’s not there anymore anyway. She got fired after.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Sherlock couldn’t help the sneer that came to his face. “A woman, of course. Did she seduce you, John? Long lingering looks in the break room, a mug of tea on a cold day. How long have you been cheating, that I just haven’t seen it?” He stood and strode back over the fridge, rummaging for the heart sitting on the lower shelf._ _ _ _ _

_____“Sherlock, it wasn’t like that,” John said. “Just please...forgive me?” He froze as Sherlock turned, partially dissected organ in hand, eyes blazing._ _ _ _ _

_____“It wasn’t like that?” Sherlock asked coldly. “Forgive you?” Sherlock weighed his handful. “Tell me, John. Did she rape you?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What? No, Sherlock, I’m trying to tell you. It just...happened..” John said hesitantly, remorseful to a fault, eyes fixed on Sherlock._ _ _ _ _

_____“It just happened? It should never have happened. Am I not enough?” Sherlock snapped. “Did you want more sex? Did you want more conversation? Or was it that you needed something _normal ___? He threw the heart at John, bouncing it off his chest and landing on the ground with a wet splat, rolling under the chair. John looked at him in shock. “Wasn’t I enough? Why, John, tell me what was missing that you had to go and do this? ” Sherlock hissed. “Enjoy the heart. Use it to start a collection. You’d already collected mine, and broken it in turn. You break things, John.” He strode away, gloves, scarf, coat swirling on. “Don’t be here when I return,” he warned. “And take your things.”_ _ _ _ _

______“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait-”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock slammed the door behind him, galloping down the stairs and out, heading mindlessly into the streets, haphazardly making his way to the only safe place he knew._ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______**_ _ _ _ _ _

______Greg answered the door, a plate of pasta in hand, fork in the other. “Sherlock?” he mumbled, face contorting in confusion as he swallowed._ _ _ _ _ _

______“May I come in?” Sherlock asked, shivering._ _ _ _ _ _

______“What is it?” Mycroft asked, coming into the hall._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock looked up and met his brothers eyes. “I knew. And I did it anyway.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly. “I warned you. Come in. We’re having dinner.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Greg stared, open mouthed as Sherlock and Mycroft walked into the kitchen, Sherlock pressed close to his brothers side with Mycroft's arm curled protectively around him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Gregory,” Mycroft called. “The door.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Right.” Greg shut the door, and followed them in._ _ _ _ _ _

______**_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Where did you go today?” Mycroft asked, sitting Sherlock down on the couch._ _ _ _ _ _

______“The clock. The park. The bus stop,” Sherlock said, curling his arms around his knees after pulling them to his chest. “Then here.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Let me see.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock offered one arm, and then the next. Mycroft nodded, and pushed a hand through his hair. “Will you eat?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“No.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Sherlock, when did you last eat?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“11:24 pm, Sunday night,” Sherlock replied._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s Tuesday. You need to eat,” Mycroft said. “I’ll get you a shake if you can’t handle food right now.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sherlock nodded, and shifted, laying down on his side as Mycroft stood from his couch. “Lights.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I know, brother mine,” Mycroft responded quietly, flicking them off as he left the room._ _ _ _ _ _

______Greg was hovering right outside the door, plate still in his hand. “What the hell happened? Why’s he look like that? Did he use again? Where’s John-”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Mycroft cut him off with a silencing hand, beckoning him into the kitchen. “John has, quite regrettably for his sake, cheated on my brother.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Greg’s eyes went wide. “Fuck.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Exactly that,” Mycroft replied. He moved to the fridge, pulling out a can. He popped the tab after shaking it, and then poured it into a glass. “Sherlock used to drink these when he struggled with eating while detoxing, or when his mind was too much for him to handle.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Right. But I mean...is he going to stay here?” Greg asked hesitantly._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I think, perhaps for a while.” Mycroft glanced at him. “Is that an issue?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“No, course not,” Greg said. “You know I don’t mind. He’s family.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Thank you, Gregory. Set up the spare bed?” Mycroft pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s cheek, then took the shake into the other room._ _ _ _ _ _


	3. A Wanting Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song "Elegy for the Arctic", that was mentioned at the beginning can be found[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DLnhdnSUVs) It is an original piece written by and performed by Ludovico Einaudi. The linked performance was one played on a floating platform in front of a glacier in the Arctic Ocean to call for its protection.

“An Elegy for the Arctic. How very telling, brother mine,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft turned as the last strains of the piano faded out. “You’re awake,” he replied. “Very good. You need to have another shake.”

“I’ve already had one. Is he gone from Baker Street?”

“Yes. Installed in a motel, and still hoping you’ll take him back, if I’m not mistaken.” Mycroft straightened up, and stood, closing the lid over the piano keys. “Will you?”

“No. I’ve learnt my lesson.” Sherlock looked away, looked out the window, eyes focused on a distant point. “Many times,” he murmured, almost soft, almost inaudible.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head, and came forward, reaching out hesitantly. “Victor and John were both-”

“Don’t.” Sherlock turned away, leaving the room. “I’m going to Baker Street,” he called out as he passed Greg in the sitting room.

“Wait, Sherlock! Why don’t you-” Greg was cut off with the slam of the front door, and he sighed, taking his seat again, listening as Mycroft started to play once more. After a long moment, he got up, taking up his mug of tea, and going into the library, leaning against the door frame. “Will he be all right?” he asked quietly.

Mycroft didn’t reply, though the music he was playing suddenly changed tone, becoming something darker and heavier. Frazzled, and volatile. Greg breathed out slowly, and took a seat on one of the chairs in the room, listening carefully to all the things Mycroft wasn’t saying.

**

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock stiffened as the man entered the sitting room behind him. “John.”

“Sherlock, please. Just let me explain.”

“You’ve done that already, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t. Please, it didn’t mean anything, I didn’t think, I wasn’t thinking.”

Sherlock snapped his violin case shut, and turned, looming over John. “You didn’t _think_?” he sneered. “Didn’t think, wasn’t thinking, didn’t mean anything. Words, John! Just silly words. Congratulations, really. You've done what so many have tried and failed to do, and then threw it away for a quick _fuck_.”

The last word was spat with enough force to make John step back, eyes wide.

“You thought you loved me. But if you had, this wouldn't have happened. And if you had known the way I loved you, love you still, you never would have let her sit on your lap. I'm nearly surprised you didn't break the chair with your rocking and bouncing, but really, enjoy the memories when you’re sitting there. It's all you'll have now. Be gone from the flat, have all your things moved out in the next two days.” Sherlock turned around, case in hand and headed for the door.

“Sherlock. Wait-” John reached out, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist, tugging him back.

The slap echoed off the walls, and John’s hand dropped limply from Sherlock’s arm.

“You don't get to touch me,” Sherlock said, voice icy, cracking slightly. “Never again will you touch me.”

“Sherlock. Don’t, please,” John said weakly, looking up at him. “I love you.”

“Perhaps you did. Or do. I don’t quite know any longer, and I can’t be bothered looking. But you run, John. You stray from anything that has the power to make you happy. And I won’t be a part of that. I’ve fought for too long to have myself. I won’t give myself to someone else who will simply leave.” Sherlock turned again, and left, his steps on the stairs measured and steady, John staring after him. 

“Sherlock?”

“Ah. Mrs. Hudson. I suggest you go away for a few days,” Sherlock said, pausing at the curious voice. “There will be movers in.”

“Movers?” Mrs. Hudson gave him a scandalized look. “What do you need movers for?”

“John will be leaving Baker Street. Irreconcilable differences. Isn’t that what they say?” Sherlock said softly.

“But-”

“Good day, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock walked out, leaving the elderly woman looking after him, clutching her cardigan together in surprise.

**

“Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft, please, just tell me he’s all right,” John said. “Do you know where he is? He left, and he’s not in the normal places.”

“I’m rather surprised it took you so long to call. Yes, Sherlock is ‘all right’ and yes, I do know his location. You however, will no longer be privy to such information.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen as he kicked his legs up onto his desk. “I’m going to put this in no uncertain terms. You’re to stop calling Inspector Lestrade, Miss Hooper, and most importantly, Sherlock. You will have your things cleared from Baker Street in the next day, as that is the end of the timeline Sherlock set for you, and you will not attempt to return there to speak to him.”

“But I need-”

“You do not need anything. You want, Doctor Watson. You want to pretend you can be _normal_ , can be loyal and stay, but you will always stray. You have always done so, and you will always do so.”

“How...You’re a-”

Mycroft shifted, sitting properly at his desk once more. “I can only assume you were going to say I am a piece of work, and I assure you I am. As well as icy, cold, arctic, heartless, and whatever you wish to throw at me. By all means, Doctor Watson, throw the entire book. But understand this. First, I will do whatever is necessary to protect my brother, and that does include protecting him from you. Second, you are at fault for what has occurred here. This is your fault and you did quite enjoy yourself, so do not continue with petty excuses, and empty apologies. Deep down, you are relieved at being free, even if guilt drives you to grovel.” Mycroft held up a hand as Greg slipped into the office, shifting anxiously at the door. “And finally, Sherlock will not ever let you back in. Give up. Find somewhere that you can be of use, and go there. If you wish, I will assist you. I think we can both agree that it would be best if you were no longer in London. You know how to contact me.”

Mycroft waited a moment, and then there was a sudden click, and the tone of an empty line came through the receiver. He sighed, and hung up the phone. “Gregory? What is it?”

“You should see this,” Greg said quietly. “Really, My.”

Mycroft frowned, and stood, following him out of the room.

“It wasn’t like this an hour ago,” Greg whispered, gesturing to the room Sherlock was staying in. “He just got back.”

Mycroft’s frown deepened, and he pushed open the door, taking in the papers pinned along the wall, the music notes inked in messy lines along them, and the completely silent man standing in the middle of the room, fingers steepled under his chin.

Taking a step away, Mycroft tugged Greg with him, and across the hall. “He is deleting John,” he said quietly. “Replacing him with song.”

Greg stared at him. “Are you joking? He can’t delete someone. Not really.”

“He has before. For the most part.” Mycroft glanced at the window. “There were two times he’s done this. Redbeard he replaced with ash. Victor he replaced with a seven percent solution. They’re nothing but faint memories now. Life lessons if you’d rather look at it that way.”

“But...that’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“So...what happens now?” Greg asked looking out the window with him, frowning as a first few raindrops hit the glass.

“He will start over. As he always does.”

“What about John?”

“I do believe I will send Doctor Watson away. If he accepts my offer, of course.”

“Send him where?”

“Africa, perhaps India. Somewhere where he can have mobility. People need good men, good doctors. John Watson needs a place where he can be good, even if he strays.”

“Do you think…” Greg shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What, Gregory?”

Greg sighed, and took Mycroft’s hand, leading him over to the edge of the bed, and sitting down. He tugged Mycroft to stand between his knees, looking up at him. “I love you, My. And you know I love Sherlock. But do you honestly think that he’s going to be able to start over this time? John was…. he was something different for Sherlock. ”

Mycroft looked at their joined hands, and then brushed his thumbs over Greg’s knuckles. “I am aware. And I do not know what this will mean for my brother, but I must trust that he will be able to continue on without John.”

“Sherlock Holmes _without_ John Watson?”

“It has been so before,” Mycroft replied. “And now it seems it will be happening again.”

Greg nodded, and brought Mycroft’s hand to his lips, pressing them to his knuckles.

**

Sherlock looked up as a crack of thunder jolted him from his mind. He swayed slightly, moving over to the window, and looking out. “The only constant,” he murmured, “in an ever changing world.” He sank back into armchair, staring out the window and at the traffic moving by, their headlights foggy refractions on the glass.

**

 _“Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old loves are the worst.”_  
_― The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes_


End file.
